


The Hours Between

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: "post-ep" for the movie, Brotherly Love, Gen, Language, Live Aid, emotional upsets, mention of illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 17:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17533487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: They'd played in front of massive audiences before, of course, but after the painful years apart and the devastating news of Freddie's illness, this day was exceptional. It was something to be treasured, savoured, to be repeated down the generations like the heroes' tales of old.Queen has a couple of hours between their Live Aid performance and the duet between Freddie and Brian. Roger overthinks things, John makes tea, Brian can't get his hair dry, and Freddie just wants to be with his boys.





	The Hours Between

"So long, goodbye! We love you!"

Roger breathed a grateful sigh as Freddie bid farewell to the enormous, enthralled Live Aid crowd. They'd played in front of massive audiences before, of course, but after the painful years apart and the devastating news of Freddie's illness, this day was exceptional. It was something to be treasured, savoured, to be repeated down the generations like the heroes' tales of old.

There was electricity in the touch of Brian's arm across his shoulder as they bowed in unison. They'd been on pins and needles in the run-up to the performance, worrying about Freddie's voice, his health, his stamina, but God, he had been magnificent! Roger snaked his arm around Brian's waist and embraced him as they stood before the crowd that Freddie had charmed.

It was nothing short of a miracle. Even John, always so diffident in curtain calls, strode boldly to the front of the stage to take his bow, relief and pride beaming from his smile.

By unspoken agreement they had let Freddie go onstage first, and now they let him leave first, following in his wake. Freddie was more than their frontman; he was their leader. Their friend. Hell, he was their IDOL, and Roger had never loved him more than at the moment the four of them got backstage and Freddie beckoned them into a sweaty hug, whispering something to each of them in turn. Roger met Freddie's eyes and found them full of warmth.

"Darling Roger," he whispered into the shell of Roger's ear, almost into his very soul, "thank you for this. Thank you for forgiving me."

He felt the sting of sweat pouring into his eyes. Or perhaps they were tears, but he'd never admit that. "Fred, you were..." Roger shook his head. There were no words for what they'd just achieved, other than-- 

"You bastards!" 

It was Elton, of course, head cocked to one side as he surveyed the band that had just taken utter control of seventy-two thousand people. Freddie, laughing, pulled Roger close and rested against him, smelling of hair gel, sweat, and alcohol.

"You stole the show!" Elton continued, grinning like a maniac. "Bowie's shitting a brick right now!"

Brian flashed a brief, self-satisfied grin, then waved their little group forward to where Jim, Mary, and David waited for them. Freddie patted Roger's back before releasing him and bounding over to Mary. He swept her up in one arm, swinging her in a tight arc. "There, my love, weren't we amazing?"

"The best. Oh, Freddie," Mary gasped. Her eyes were shining with tears of rapture. "I'm so proud of you!"

He set her down and kissed her forehead, clapping David on the shoulder as he passed him and sauntered up to Jim. "And what did you think of your first rock concert?" he inquired archly.  
  
The light in Jim's eyes told everyone what the answer would be. Roger smirked at John and Brian as Jim caught Freddie's face in his hands and kissed him, lightly, on the lips. Freddie shivered slightly despite the oppressive heat, then pulled back with his fingers gingerly touching his mouth. "I'm so glad you came, so incredibly glad and grateful. Now, Ratty will show you to a hospitality area and we'll meet up after the show."

"Aren't you coming with us?" Mary asked, wide-eyed, but Freddie shook his head and laid a hand on John's shoulder.

"Later, after the show's over. Right now, I really need to be with my boys."

Well, that last part was unexpected. Roger caught sight of John's quizzical expression as he let a roadie take his bass. Brian, who was refusing to allow the Red Special out of his sight, waved in the direction of their trailer and led the way with Freddie at his heels.

It was when they were safely tucked inside that Roger finally saw the fatigue take its toll on Freddie's posture. He slid into a chair, head tipping back, and put one hand at his throat. "Is there ANY hope of tea?" he queried.

"I'm on it." John indicated a carafe on one of the little tables. He faffed around with tea bags and paper cups. "Just needs a few minutes to steep."

Roger felt a sudden impulse to be as close to Freddie as possible. Brian was already standing behind him, a lanky, protective gargoyle, so Roger dropped a cushion on the floor and sat at Freddie's feet. He was still a little high from performing, but now the thoughts he'd forced himself to keep at bay were trudging back into his mind: Freddie was sick, had worn himself down to the bone, and yet he'd have to go back onstage with Brian in just a few hours to do a duet.

Brian seemed to be having the same thoughts. "If you're too tired for 'Is This The World,' I can go on by myself, or Roger can come sing instead," he offered, and Roger nodded his agreement.

"Not necessary, my dears," Freddie said. His eyes were still closed but he reached with one hand until he felt Roger's head, then guided it down to his lap where he could run his fingers through the sweat-soaked hair. "But that's very kind, thank you."

The gesture was familiar from all the years they'd lived together and traveled together. And yet it was somewhat foreign, for Freddie had only been back with them for a few weeks and their relationship was still mending. The touch of his fingers was tentative, so Roger butted his head against Freddie's hand. _Keep doing that_ was the unspoken request.

Someday, Freddie wouldn't be there anymore to stroke Roger's hair the way he had through endless rounds of touring, after Roger had yet another disastrous romantic tryst, or...just because.

John came around with paper cups of tea. "Yours has honey in, Fred. It'll help with your throat."

"Ta, darling." Freddie blew on the surface of the liquid, then drank. "Oh. Yes, this is perfect."

Roger accepted his cup with a thankful smile, noticing that John's fingers weren't completely steady. He reached up to clasp John's wrist. "You all right there, Deacy?"

Lips pressed together tightly, John bobbed his head but didn't speak. The rest of the band all knew that John often withdrew into himself after a performance, and with the excitement of the day he was bound to feel overwhelmed.

"You were brilliant, Deacy, every note clear as a bell," Brian said earnestly.

"Mmm. Thanks," mumbled John. He took the chair opposite Freddie's. "For not having a sound check, I do think we put on a good show." When the other three started laughing, John amended his statement. "Okay, we were fucking amazing! There, you happy?"

"Ecstatic, my dear Deacy," purred Freddie. He tugged at Brian's arm, indicating that he should sit down beside him. Somehow Brian managed to fold his endless arms and legs enough to share the seat with Freddie, who drew him close. "God, you absolutely STINK," he chuckled, his nose crinkling as he leaned into Brian's sweat-stained shirt.

Bristling, Brian sniffed himself and made a face. "Yeah. I should change clothes."

"We ALL should," Roger countered. "No offence, Freddie, but I'm directly under your armpit and--"

Before Freddie had a chance to swat at Roger for saying such a thing, they heard a knock on the trailer door and Bob Geldof peered in. His hair was standing practically on end and there were circles under his eyes, but he was smiling brightly. "Just wanted to drop in, let you know how fabulous you were. We hit our goal whilst you were on stage. It'd been silent as the grave until then, and now - over a million pounds!"

Roger felt a thrill of gratification. He looked up at Brian and Freddie, whose expressions radiated pure joy. "That's amazing, Bob, truly," Freddie said, his voice sounding strained and tired despite the happy words.

"Is there anything I can get you?" Bob asked as he cast a worried glance at Freddie.

"Cleanliness," Freddie quipped. "We utterly reek, and this trailer will have to be fumigated or condemned unless we can sort ourselves."

"There are portable showers just behind the main stage." Bob pulled a lanyard from around his neck - he was wearing four at this point, since he had to have access to every inch of Wembley - and passed it to Brian. "Just two, I'm afraid, and I can't swear that there are towels so you'll want to bring the ones from here."

"Brilliant." Freddie blew Bob a kiss, which made him blush and depart the trailer before the rest of the group dissolved into a fit of laughter.

"Poor old Bob - I think I got on his last nerve." Freddie gently eased Roger's head from his lap and started to stand up. He slipped back into the chair. "Fucking old age," he groaned. "I simply cannot budge from this spot."

Roger swallowed hard. He gave Brian an imploring look and in an instant Brian was helping Freddie out of the chair. "C'mon, old man, we need to talk through our song anyway so let's go clean up first."

Freddie looked down and away, clearly embarrassed at needing Brian's help, chivalrous as he might be. He leaned exaggeratedly against Brian's side and moaned, batting his eyes at John and Roger. "Oh, my, what a big strong MAN he is!"

They had to let the subterfuge play out, even though Roger's heart started hammering away in his chest. He was relieved that John was the one who got up, rummaged for towels, and passed them to Brian along with the duffel bags that held their toiletries and clothes. Once they were gone, Roger slumped against Freddie's chair, folding his arms on the still-warm seat and resting his head on them. "Fuck," he muttered. "Oh, fucking fuck."

John's steady hand on his shoulder was reassuring. "I know how you feel. We worked so hard to get to this concert that it was all we could think about, but now..."

"Now we have to face up to what's going to happen to Freddie." Roger tilted his head to one side so he could see John, who was grimacing and tapping his foot in an irregular rhythm. "What the hell are we going to do, Deacy?"

"Play. Write. Follow his lead." John looked down at his foot as if unaware that he'd been making so much noise. Roger opened his mouth to ask _and after?_ , but one look at John's agonised face made him decide to stay silent.

Heaving himself to his feet, Roger muttered, "I need a fucking drink." He pulled the bottle of Stolichnaya out of the ice bucket and poured several generous fingers for himself. He waved the bottle at John, who eyed it suspiciously and then gave him a crooked grin. Roger splashed vodka into another glass and handed it over.

John touched his glass to Roger's. "Cheers, Rog."

Roger had never felt less cheerful in his life. "To better days, mate."

Whether those days were in the past or still to come, he had no idea. The vodka warmed his throat, to be sure, but there was a chill in his bones that nothing could assuage. He plopped down into the chair that Freddie had vacated and leaned forward with his elbows on his legs, staring disinterestedly at his glass. The trailer was eerily quiet with the monitor turned off. Roger found the silence comforting until he heard a small, choked noise coming from John and realised that he must be holding back tears.

He wanted more than anything to jump up and pull John into his arms, telling him not to cry, that everything would turn out fine, that a cure was surely just around the corner. But he was not a liar, and John was not a fool, so instead he reached up and turned the monitor on.

_I, I will be King,_  
_And you, you will be Queen._

Bowie. "Heroes."

Of course. Roger stole a glance at John, whose mouth was beginning to turn up in a smile. After all, John loved irony almost as much as he loved Freddie. Roger finished up his drink, set the glass aside, and lay, supine, across two chairs with his arms folded behind his head. He couldn't remember when drumming had been more exhausting - or more exhilarating.

At some point he must have drifted to sleep, because the next thing he heard was The Who playing "Love, Reign o'er Me" and the next thing he felt was water dripping on his forehead. He blinked himself awake and found Brian leaning over him, wringing his hair out. He had changed into a sleeveless white shirt and blue jeans, and he was wearing trainers instead of the usual clogs. "Your turn, Rog," he said, draping the lanyard around Roger's neck. "We've got about an hour until Freddie and I go on, but don't take forever in there, okay?"

Roger sat up. Freddie was sitting by the door of the trailer, dressed in white pants and a large white cotton shirt that threatened to swallow him up. He looked like a movie star with his hair slicked back. John was fussing over him with tea and throat lozenges until Freddie batted him away. "I'm finally clean, Deacy - just give me a little time to pull myself together. Go make sure Roger doesn't continue to emit the peculiar stench of _Eau de Sweaty Blond Drummer,_ " he quipped, but the smile he gave Roger was affectionate.

"I resemble that remark," Roger replied with a toss of his head. "We'll be right back. C'mon, Deacy." Roger grabbed towels and his bag and led John out into the summer evening. The Who were on their last number, "Won't Get Fooled Again," and Roger air-drummed along, trying to burn off the excess energy he always got after a good show.

He entered the steamy shower room and immediately felt his muscles start to relax. His clothes were sticking to him and he had to peel them off, grimacing at the sweat and stench. After setting the water temperature as hot as he could bear, he stood under the stream and soaped himself from head to foot. When he turned his face up into the spray, he finally let go of the tears that had been choking him for the last hour.

It was as much of a relief as the shower itself.

Roger scrubbed his face, letting the gushing water rinse away the telltale traces of his breaking heart. He shut off the faucets, inhaling the soap-scented steam until the crushing weight on his lungs subsided. Once he had toweled himself off and put on fresh clothing, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and emerged to face John and the rest of the world.

John was stuffing his dirty clothes into his duffel bag. When he looked up at Roger, it was plain that he'd been crying as well, his eyes puffy and suspiciously red around the rims. From the guilty little smile on John's face, Roger surmised that his own eyes were probably in a similar state.

"If we're going to listen to Fred and Brian do 'Is This the World,' then it's just as well we got it out of our systems," John said briskly. He shouldered his bag the way he shouldered all the responsibilities that came along with Queen, without rancor but not without pulling a face. "Are you doing the synth stuff toward the end, or would you rather I take care of it?"

"Would you mind? I'd pretty much have to have the keys colour-coded." Roger enjoyed hearing John's snicker - it was good to hear any of them laugh these days. When they got to the trailer, Roger put out a hand to stop John from knocking on the door. "Listen. I'm gonna ask for a mic backstage. In case...you know."

John bit his lip and nodded. Of course he understood that backup might be necessary if Freddie's voice gave out. "I won't let on," he promised.

"Good lad." Roger was about to open the door when he saw a shadow behind him, then he noticed a familiar reflection in the shiny metal of the Airstream: Brian.

He was fanning his hair in the warm breeze, trying to get it dry before he had to return to the stage. Obviously he'd overheard John and Roger, then. "Was this your idea, Roger?"

Feeling like a schoolboy facing the headmaster, Roger stepped away and looked down. God only knows how much of Brian's wrath he was bringing down on himself. He thought briefly about punting the question to John, but he'd never been able to deceive sharp-eyed Brian. "Yes," he murmured, expecting a verbal assault on his loyalty, if not his intelligence.

What he got instead were Brian's long arms wrapping around him. Roger turned his head to look at John, who was beaming back at him. Brian's voice was warm when he said, "Brilliant, Rog, thank you. They're only going to mic my guitar so I'd be useless if...something happened."

"He won't need it. It's just insurance. Like taking an umbrella to make sure it won't rain," John wisecracked.

Laughing, their hearts a little lighter, the three of them went back into the trailer. Freddie had, of course, opened a bottle of champagne and poured each of them a flute. "There you are, all clean at last! We go on in about ten minutes." He handed the glasses around and lifted his. "What shall we drink to, darlings?"

Roger wanted to say _a cure for AIDS_ but didn't want to ruin the cheerful atmosphere. He raised his glass and his eyebrows, and said "To four aging Queens!"

"Four aging Queens!" shouted the other three as they clinked glasses. Roger took a long swallow, letting the alcohol loosen the last of his tension.

On the monitor Elton was singing "Can I Get a Witness" and John checked his watch. "We should get out there. Where's the synth?"

"Ratty has it," Brian said as he reached for his acoustic, the Chet Atkins CE that always sounded like angels having a party. "He'll get it all ready for you, no worries about setup or volume control." He opened the door. "Time, guys."

Once again they let Freddie go in the front of the group. They clustered backstage, enjoying a cool breeze now that the sun had set. Paul McCartney was there as well, set to go on right after them to lead into the big finale. He grinned widely at them, raising both thumbs high in the air. "Great show!" he shouted. "Go get 'em!"

"What else WOULD we do, darling?" Freddie asked, archly, but with a huge smile. Macca was one of his childhood idols and the praise made Freddie stand even straighter with his head held high.

"You're up," said the stagehand. He held the curtain open. It was dark out there now, the crowd just shadows waiting for something magical to happen.

Brian squeezed Freddie's hand. "All right, Fred?"

"Never better, love." Freddie opened his arms to the band, making sure to touch each one of them before breaking away to stride onto the stage as if he owned it.

Which he did, Roger thought as he watched his friends take their places. Ratty brought him a mic and gave John a seat at the portable synthesizer that would fill in toward the end of the song, giving it extra richness.

Roger stood in the wings, his soul rejoicing at the way Brian strummed the strings of his guitar to lead Freddie into the beautiful song the two of them had written together. Freddie's emotional vocal captivated the audience, never faltering, never fading, and Roger felt like a prat holding the microphone. He wouldn't need it. He switched it off, wincing when some feedback went through the stadium's speaker system, and handed it back to Ratty for storage.

Freddie Fucking Mercury. What a man. Even standing still, he radiated so much energy that the spotlight seemed redundant. The same light fell on Brian, illuminating his strong hands and newly-washed, fluffy curls, but he kept his head bowed instead of reaching for his share of the glory. He was playing the chords with stunningly beautiful expression, sensitive to every nuance of Freddie's voice. From time to time he would look over at Freddie, his eyes sparkling, awestruck, reverent.

The crowd - their crowd, FREDDIE'S crowd, cheered madly. Freddie swept into a bow but Brian stayed put on his stool for a few moments, letting Freddie have the limelight. When he finally stood, guitar raised in triumph, Roger could see how enervated he was after the long day of performance and anxiety. 

John and Roger had to scramble to the stage-left side to meet up with them. Freddie was tired, clearly, but his face was radiant. Brian looked as if he were about to fall over, leaning on John as they embraced. "That was so beautiful, guys," John said into a mouthful of Brian's hair.

"Thank you, darling. Great job on the synth." Freddie took a deep breath, coughed, then motioned them to take a seat in the many chairs spread around for the people who would be going on for the finale. It was a throng of the famous, the nearly-famous, and people who Roger couldn't pick out of a lineup. Many musicians came by to offer congratulations to them, but Roger couldn't take his eyes off of Freddie. He was the calm centre of the storm, constantly reminding their admirers that Roger's drumming was phenomenal, or that John was the best bass player on the planet, or that Brian was an absolute genius on guitar. Roger had missed this about Freddie, the generosity and the charm. He was their leading man.

And he was dying.

Fuck.

Roger felt hot tears sting his eyes so he reached for his ever-present sunglasses despite the darkness of the evening. Freddie caught his attention and mouthed, _Don't you dare cry, love,_ which only made it worse. Roger stuck the glasses on his nose, took a ragged breath, and shut his eyes.

Something was going terribly wrong onstage. He could hear the piano just fine through the speakers but McCartney's vocal wasn't being picked up. He grimaced and opened his eyes in time to see Geldof and a few other people scamper onstage to help out.

"Oh, my God," moaned John. "It's like the Rainbow, remember?"

They all could. Roger shuddered, leaning forward until finally the microphone kicked in and he could hear the words to "Let it Be." The song had never seemed so poignant as in this moment.

_There is still a light that shines on me.  
Shine until tomorrow, let it be._

They still had their light. Their Freddie.

The call went out for everyone to get onstage for the last number. Brian groused - he thought "Do They Know It's Christmas" was absolute rubbish and had been threatening to go hide in the trailer instead of performing. Roger, who had agreed, watched Brian to see if he'd make good on his words. But there was something in the resolute set of Freddie's shoulders as he rose that was irresistible, magnetic, and the other three bunched up close to him as they waited for their cue.

Freddie gave them that smile, the one that lit up his eyes, the one where he didn't give a damn about showing his teeth because all he felt was joy. He was born to be a performer, come hell or high water. "Come along, my darlings, let's go sing Bob's naff little song so we can get the fuck out of here and take up residence in the nearest bar."

John had his mouth open, probably to ask if Freddie even should be drinking, but he shut it again. Not usually the most demonstrative of men, it meant the world when John initiated a group hug just before they went onstage.

It was under-rehearsed madness, the ultimate crowd scene with far too many divas for one stage. Roger watched Brian and John fade into the background whilst Freddie strolled right up front, where he belonged. Content, smiling to himself, Roger found a spot where he could watch Freddie be...Freddie.

Freddie belonged to the world, to music, and to Queen, but he also belonged to Roger. As Roger sang along with the group - _this really is the worst shite_ \- he found himself thinking a little prayer to Whoever might be watching.

_Please keep him safe. Please give him comfort when he has to go. And please, please give him the chance to make enough music to fill the hours between._

***  
END  
***

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story obviously ties in more with the movie than real-life events, other than these things:  
> *Elton John really did call them "bastards" and said they'd stolen the show.  
> *There were some mic problems during the duets, the severity depending on which feed was being broadcast.  
> *Paul McCartney's vocal mic failed completely for the first minutes of "Let it Be" on the stage feed - radio/tv had intermittent sound. Geldof and some others went on stage to sing along until it got fixed.  
> *Roger wore sunglasses at the finale despite it being dark outside. (He also had on a truly hideous pastel plaid shirt, but I didn't put that in the story.)
> 
> While I think I correctly identified the acoustic guitar Brian played in the duet, I certainly could be wrong. Correct me, please!
> 
> I have a Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode


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